LOCAL WOMAN KILLED BY FLYING SQUARE SAUSAGE.’ This was the nightmare headline that flashed into my head in the middle of the night after my near-death experience.

You see, over the last few months I’d gotten myself into a bit of a guddle. My house wasn’t quite like a scene from Hoarders, but suddenly I noticed that drawers, cupboards, wardrobes, in fact, every nook and cranny was stuffed to the gunnels.

After another moan to my daughter Jenna, who wasn’t really listening as she had heard it all before, I asked: “Fancy helping me clear out a few things?”

“A few things? A few things?” she parroted as she went from room to room.

Armed with black bin bags, boxes, and Sellotape, next day she arrived at my house raring to go, but I was rather anxious because, surely, I’d held on to all this stuff for a reason?

Rummaging through my wardrobes, items were discarded, but not without comment.

“Leather trousers at your age?”

I said nothing.

“A mini skirt?”

I said nothing.

“Hmmmmm……... a denim shirt?”

I said nothing.

One by one, items of clothing were discarded before my eyes and I wasn’t happy at all.

“Really ......a ski suit?” she held the item up in disbelief as though she had discovered a space suit instead.

“You’ve never skied a day in your life,” she mocked.

Which was true, however, one day back in 2010 when we had the heaviest snowfall in years, I decided to wear the ski suit for the first time to head for my train.

The snow was so deep I only made it to the bottom of the stairs and fell flat on my face. The ski suit was two sizes smaller than I needed which meant I couldn’t bend in any way to stand up. So, Commando-style I crawled to the steps where I eventually hauled myself back on to my feet.

With that in mind. “You’re right Jenna, put it in the bag.”

Well I wish you’d seen her face when she came across some fancy-dress items.

“I’m not being funny mum, but there’s not much difference between some of these and your normal clothes!”

As with my clothes, she was just as ruthless with my footwear. Boots, shoes, trainers, slippers, she ploughed through every pair.

“You’ve got six pairs of virtually identical boots,” she tutted.

I said nothing.

“You’ve got more trainers here than JD Sports.”

I said nothing.

“You’ll never be able to walk in these anymore.” She held up my six-inch heels.

I said nothing.

“How on earth have you accumulated all of these?”

“Well Jenna.” I was getting a bit hacked off.

“Unlike every other part of my body,” I sighed.

“My feet have remained the same size since I was 15 and they all still fit.”

She continued.

Bedrooms done and bin bags everywhere, there was definitely an air of tension as we headed to the kitchen.

A disapproving eye was immediately cast, and she

just couldn’t help herself as

she lifted a large see-through

box and read out loud.

“Betty Crocker recipe cards.”

“Now Jenna, it took me nearly two years to collect those cards from a magazine so….”

“Mum.” She stopped me in my tracks. “How many recipes have you ever tried?”

And as I could only recall making Beef Stew and Dumplings, my collection of recipe cards were quickly binned too.

“And what the heck is this?” she held up a wooden handled potato crimper my mum handed down. Of course, I then rambled on about how it was great for making your own chips and….

“Mum, you don’t even have a chip pan or deep fat fryer.”


Jenna had had enough and headed home, so I decided to clear out my upright freezer which sat on top of my fridge.

For some reason, a while back I had the bright idea of removing the wire drawers from the freezer….

“It’ll give me much more storage room,” I cleverly deduced.

However, there is a reason freezers have drawers.

On opening the door, I was met with an avalanche of sweetcorn kernels which poured out of an open bag and bounced all over my kitchen floor. It was like dodging hailstones as I quickly slammed the door and surveyed the defrosting mess.

“Right,” I muttered.

“Definitely time for a freezer clear out.”

Gingerly, I opened the door again, but it was too late. A single wrapped sliced sausage slid off the top shelf and came flying out like a slate from a roof and struck me bang on the forehead!

“Argh,” it was solid, and for a few moments I was stunned.

“Bloody freezer,” I moaned as I phoned Jenna.

“I think I am concussed by a frozen square sausage!”

But there was no sympathy, just laughter.

A few weeks later my son visited and just as he was about to open the freezer door..

“Ross…... watch for the flying square saus……”

But it was too late.